


in your warmth I forget how cold it can be

by junsnow



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Smut, post parentage reveal, post s08e01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junsnow/pseuds/junsnow
Summary: Set in S8. Jon and Sansa have sex after Jon finds out about his parents. That's it, that's the fic.





	in your warmth I forget how cold it can be

**Author's Note:**

> well, this came up in a jonsa gc and i just...needed it fjskdjfkdsjfs. so here it is. title from the lyrics of "warmth" by bastille. enjoy!

Jon paced his chambers, feeling the stone walls caging him in more and more. _Aegon Targaryen_ , Sam had said. He couldn’t decide between the urge of punching a wall or pulling his own hair out. _Lies, lies, lies_. That was all he knew. Lies for love. Lies for family. Lies for war. They all spun and mingled inside his head, making him feel dizzy. At least he’d told Sansa the truth about Daenerys. That was some solace. One less lie. _How many more will I have to tell now?_ He wondered.

Looking down, Jon saw the twin direwolves enameled on his gorget. He could feel its hold on his neck tightening, choking him, so he reached for the clasp with shaky hands, throwing it across the room once he was free. He was no Stark. He knew it, he always had. _You are to me,_ Sansa’s voice called out in his memory, sweet and stubborn. _Not my sister,_ his own mind replied like a punch to the gut.

Jon took off his fur cloak, leather jerkin and the gray tunic he wore underneath—the tiny Stark sigils in the cuffs embroidered by Sansa’s own hands—and threw them aside for a nondescript woolen shirt under an old gipon. He fastened the laces at the front angrily, getting increasingly frustrated. His fingers were too big to pass the lace through the small loops, if only he had help from— _No_. _Shut up_ , he told himself.

His feet didn’t seem to agree with his mind, for in two strides he was pushing his door open and stepping outside. Jon knew where he was going, though if anybody asked him, he would claim to be wandering aimlessly around the castle. Her door stood before him now as an impenetrable fortress. _Don’t do it_ , his good sense tried to urge him again, but Jon ignored it and knocked. He had no idea what he was doing there, but once her voice answered, he walked in.

Sansa sat at her desk, looking over papers once again. “Yes?” She called out, not looking up.

“It’s me.” He said, rather uselessly. What could he say? _'Hello. I'm not your brother'?_

She stopped her reading and frowned, looking at him from head to toe. “What on earth are you wearing?” Her tone was disgusted, and it made him flinch.

Jon took a calming breath. “Can you help me with this?” He gestured to his front.

Sansa raised her perfect eyebrows at him. “You couldn’t ask a servant to do it?”

“Couldn’t find one. They must be busy. Or asleep.” He lied. Sansa was always up at this late hour, he knew; more often than not, doing some work in her office.

“That looks ugly.” She said, not sparing his ego. He wished that didn't make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “What happened to what you were wearing earlier?”

 _Damn._ He didn’t know how to answer that without telling her yet another lie, or worse—another truth. Jon raked his brain for an excuse, finally coming up with “I spilled some ale on it.”

Sansa squinted at him, and Jon felt warmth pool in his belly—it was as if she could see him naked. Rather suddenly, her chair scraped the floor, and she walked up to him slowly, with a new, disinterested look.

“I see.” She said calmly.

Her hands started from the bottom; slim, deft fingers picking up where he’d left of, passing the cord through the tiny holes. Jon swallowed thickly, feeling her touch so near his— _Don’t even think about it, bastard._ Sansa worked slowly but efficiently, not saying a word, nor looking at anything but where her hands were. They were so close he could see how her lashes fanned against her cheekbones as she looked down, so pretty and tempting… Jon had to look away before he did anything stupid. _She doesn’t know I’m not her brother,_ he recalled. His… _reaction_ would disgust her, surely.

That reaction consisted of a single image, immediately imprinted on his mind—it came to him unbidden once Sam had left him, and chased him wherever he went afterwards—Him and Sansa, naked as their nameday, writhing together in a bed of furs. _Gods._ He was doomed.

Jon shook his head in an attempt to clear it, hoping Sansa wouldn’t notice his strange behavior. To his eternal shame, she did. She looked at him through her long lashes, eyes shimmering with… _something._

“You’re done,” she said, making no move to separate from him. Her hands rested on his chest, sliding up, slowly, until she was pulling up the neck of his garment. Her hands did not leave when she was done; instead, she buried her fingers in his curls and came up to whisper in his ear: “ _Aegon_.”

 

Jon froze.

 

Sansa nuzzled his jaw, coming to face him again. He could taste her breath—she’d had wine at supper. She licked her lips, looking as if she was about to _eat_ him, and Jon felt something inside him snap when she took his lips in hers. He kissed her back on instinct, their tongues meeting and sending a thousand little shocks to his brain. Sansa mussed up his hair and opened her mouth further—a delicious gasp came out of her. Jon’s hands started to roam, circling her ribcage, her waist, her hips.

Suddenly, she pushed him back, and Jon feared that meant the kissing would stop, but as soon as his back met the wall, her mouth was on his again, and her breasts were pressed against his chest. Some distant part of him begged him to use his head, telling him this was dangerous, that he couldn’t dishonor Sansa like this, that they should stop at once—but it was hard to listen when Sansa was biting at his lower lip, then soothing it with her tongue. Still, he _tried_. Jon was nothing if not hardworking.

“Wait, wait,” he breathed between kisses, “you _know?”_

Sansa smirked. “You think anything goes on in this castle without me knowing about it?”

She gave him that _look_ again, the one that made his desire spark, and made to kiss him.

“Sansa,” he tried again. “This isn’t proper. You’re a lady, and… we’re not married.”

Sansa rolled her eyes at him. When that only made his pants tighten, Jon realized how truly fucked he was.

“Do I look like I care?” She replied, and Jon couldn’t argue. He knew she wasn’t a maid, but it amazed him that after the hell she went through, she still wanted this—wanted _him_ , of all people.

“Neither were you and Daenerys, and you still fucked her.” Sansa jibed, jealousy bleeding into her matter-of-fact tone.

“Sansa,” he groaned, trying not to be overcome with the fact that _Sansa_ , of all people, had just cussed in front of him, and it was the most arousing thing that had ever happened to him.

“You told me you don’t love her. Prove it.” She dared.

That was his Sansa—always challenging him. Jon looked into her blue eyes, drowning in them.

This time, she stood still, not moving a single inch towards him. Jon gathered his courage. He reached for her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks, and kissed her with everything he had. Her mouth opened to welcome him, giving as good as she was getting.

Just when Jon was seriously questioning his need for air, Sansa grabbed him by the front of his clothes and pulled, then pushed him into her chair. She climbed onto his lap, biting her lip as she started to grind against him. The pressure was everything, and not even close to enough at once. He grabbed her hip with one hand, encouraging her, while the other brought her mouth back where it belonged—in his kiss.

Sansa’s breath became more frantic, and Jon was proud to see how much he affected her. His pride suddenly turned into fear of loss when she rose from her seat, but then—to Jon’s utter astonishment—she stepped out of her undergarments. She lifted her skirts and straddled his lap again, giving him a peek of her long legs while undoing the laces of his breeches. Jon’s mind reeled with the image he’d pictured earlier—but after freeing his hardness from its confinement, she made no other move to undress them.

“Sansa…” he whispered, half begging, half questioning.

For the first time since he’d walked into her office, he could see insecurity in her.

“I have scars,” she replied, so quietly he almost didn’t catch it.

“So do I, my love.” He smiled, trying to reassure her, getting her to look at him.

“Next time.” She promised, and he knew she meant it. Through Jon’s mind it echoed, _next time, next time, next time…_ And suddenly, that one image turned into a dozen—making love by the hearth in her chambers; immersed in the hot pools; half dressed and lazily in the morning; furtive and quietly in the stables… _Next time, and next time,_ his heart soared.

Sansa brought him back to the present, grabbing his cock and sinking over it with a strangled moan.

“Sansa,” he groaned. She was wet and tight around him, and when she started to ride him, Jon felt the need to count backwards from 100 to keep from embarrassing himself and finishing too early.

Thankfully, Sansa seemed just as affected. Every noise she made sounded closer to complete abandon, and Jon wanted to keep every single one of them playing in his mind, forever. When he was out there in the cold, alone, fighting some undead creatures, he wanted to have this moment to keep him warm. So he kissed her. Again and again, until the only thing in the world was _Sansa—_ Sansa's mouth, Sansa's cunt, Sansa's voice, Sansa's scent.

Her moans started to get lost in his mouth—the only sound he could hear now was coming from where they were joined. A wet, sloppy symphony to his ears.

“Fuck,” Sansa whimpered in a voice that announced her nearing climax. Jon was letting her set the pace, but couldn’t help it at hearing her swear again—he bucked into her. Her body tensed up in response, and a high-pitched noise escaped her open mouth. Jon relished her peak, feeling her tighten around him. He drove into her once, twice, three times before throwing his head back and exploding inside her with a moan of his own.

 

They sat there, panting, for what felt like eternity. Sansa rested her head on his shoulder. Her hand came up to scratch his beard fondly, and Jon doesn’t think he’d ever felt this happy.

“I love you, you know.” He had to say.

“Good.” She replied cheekily, and Jon laughed. He could feel her smile against his neck.


End file.
